Somewhere I Belong
by Tero Ne
Summary: Life in suburbia is quiet for an empty nester but that just makes you all the more willing to take in the proud cool stray that comes up to you on your front porch.
1. Day 1

You are enjoying your afternoon pipe in the golden light of the late sun on your front porch when you first see him. He is strolling down the sidewalk with his hands tucked into his pockets and not a care in the world. The hot tip of the cigarette stands out against the shadows cast on his face, making his dark skin even darker. The sun behind him though made his blonde hair glow like a halo around his head. And his ears.

You blink several times, but your vision doesn't clear any more and you have to accept what your eyes tell you. The boy has two ears sitting atop his head, protruding through his hair. They were an even lighter blonde than the surrounding locks, but they matched the long tail swaying behind him, it's length equaled by its volume. But even from this distance you can see the knots and tangles burled in it.

Actually the distance isn't too far any more as it seems that the young man is now walking up your front walk. He comes up all the way to your porch and then onto your porch. He leans against one of the posts and looks for all intents and purposes like he belongs there. (And somewhere in the back of your mind you think he does.)

His hand finally slips out of his pocket up to pull the cigarette out of his mouth and knock the ash off. He slips it back between his lips and takes a deep breath, holds it for a second, and then blows it out. Your eyes track the cloud all the way back to his lips and then up to his eyes but you find those are blocked by the harsh reflection of the sun bouncing off of the dark lenses of oddly shaped sunglasses. The sharp angles stick out past his narrow face and don't quite seem to suit him.

"Hey, old man," his voice is smooth like velvet, "I need a shower."

You are taken aback a little at his abruptness. Asking, no, demanding a shower even though you don't know his name, haven't seen him before, and have had literally no interaction with him other than standing on your porch with him. Which he is mostly trespassing on.

But as you gawk, covering your pause with a draw on your pipe, you notice things about him. The ratty nature of his tail is only the start of the wear and tear on his appearance. The edges of his jeans are ragged, in points worn all the way through. His t-shirt is threadbare and stained in small places that look like he tried to wash them out repeatedly. His shoes are well loved converses. And by well loved you mean falling apart.

There are dark circles under his eyes, nearly black against his skin, but his lips are pale. You noticed dirt under his fingertips before he tucked his hand away again. You can put together the rest of the picture from those bits and pieces. When he asks for a shower, he really needs one.

But why come to you? Why stop in front of your house? You suppose it might have to do with the you are the only one outside at this time of day despite its comfort. Why was he even in this neighborhood? He looks like he would be more comfortable in the middle of the city, surrounded by the noise and people, rather than out here in quiet suburbia. None of it makes sense. But you'll never find out unless,

"Alright," you agree. You catch an almost imperceptible twitch of what you think is surprise. But he covers it with a another graceful draw on his cigarette. But then he crushes it out in the flower pot's soil. You frown a bit but can't really contradict him as it is the safest place to put out fire on a wooden deck. You take that as the signal to tamp out your pipe as well.

You open the front door and wave a welcoming arm to draw him inside as you put your pipe down into its usual resting point on the front hall table.

There is soft whistle behind you. "Nice digs, old man. I almost thought that these would be quaint on the outside junky on the inside houses. Or maybe it's just yours that is put together. My sample size is too small to make assumptions. And you know what they say about assumptions. They'll make an ass out of you and me. Well that cuteness only really works with the word 'assume' not 'assumption' because what are you supposed to do with all those extra letters besides drink the tea and turn it into pee but I don't really think that's appropriate talk for a guest who hasn't even had a shower now, is it?"

"No, I suppose not," you chuckle as you close the door behind him. "Shoes off."

He nearly trips over himself as he kicks them off, catching his balance only just before knocking the vase off of the nearby table. You hide your smile by turning away towards the stairs leading up to the second floor. You hear him padding along behind you like a whisper. You feel the heat of his body as you stop abruptly in front of the hallway closet. You didn't realize he has been quite that close to you. He takes a step back as you reach in and grab some fresh towels for him.

"Forgive me, I haven't replaced the towels since my son last visited. I wasn't expecting any other visitors between his spring break and his summer vacation."

"If those towels are really as fluffy as they look, I wouldn't mind rolling in someone else's dead skin cells to get dry after a nice hot shower, but I appreciate the freshness and the honesty because I don't think your kid's skin cells would want to meet me so intimately. Not that I am going to do anything obscene to your towels, old man, just need to make sure every square inch is as dry as possible otherwise my fur frizzes up like you wouldn't believe and an afro tail ain't as attractive as it sounds."

"Here we are..." you trail off as you still don't know his name. You've invited this young man into your house all the way up to the second floor and you still don't have his name.

Though instead of picking up on the subtle clues he grabs the towels out of your hands and ducks into the bathroom. "Thanks, old man. Anything tricky 'bout the shower?"

"No... I don't think anyone has had an issue with them before."

"Sweet. Catch ya on the flipside, old man," he closes the door somewhat on your face with a hint of a smile peeking though. "And by flipside I mean when I am clean. Promise I ain't gonna run up your water bill, but damn I need some me time."

"I understand. Take your time," you automatically offer before wandering away. If he is really going to take some 'me time' in there then it wouldn't be prudent to stand and wait in front of the bathroom door. Instead you can go make some dinner you decide. You have that salmon that you picked up the other day. Broiled salmon with a wasabi cream sauce and green beans on the side. Your doctor would surely approve of that meal.

You go downstairs into the familiar realm of your kitchen and start assembling ingredients. You have just slid the seasoned salmon into your oven as you hear a call from upstairs.

"Old man! Hey old man!"

You close the oven door and then go upstairs to your guest. "Yes?" Again you are left hanging without a name.

The bathroom door opens with a cloud of steam which you take as indication that he is done with his shower. It didn't go quite as long as you thought. "Hey old man, I need some clothes," he peeks around the corner bare chest first.

Then the door swings all the way open and his dignity is saved by a conveniently placed tail despite having a towel slung over his shoulder. Now that you can see (so much) more of him, the contrast between his dark skin and pale hair stands out. But all of that is forgotten when you finally see his eyes, his shades sitting fogged up on the counter. His eyes are bright red, and it's startling but at the same time... fitting.

"But I ain't giving them back after I'm done mostly because of the obvious arrangements I'll have to make to the pants because I have yet to find a pair that fit comfortably under my tail without that particular edit. I got no excuse for the shirt 'cept my old rag is really only good for the can unless you have some magic restoration potion for it, some phoenix down for cotton shirts."

"Let me see what I can find." His rambling broke you out of your staring that was starting to border on awkward. You turn away and head to your son's room. His possessions are more likely to fit the young man in your bathroom than your own. And your son hopefully won't mind you picking from this selection seeing as he did leave these behind when he moved out to his college apartment. Though he has a different build from your guest. Your son is broader and shorter whereas your guest is slim and tall.

So jean pants are out, you think to yourself, holding up the particular piece of clothing and deciding to spare your guest the awkwardness of trying on the high waters. You dig deeper into the chest drawers until you find an old pair of shorts. They were a size smaller than your boy now which might fit your guest's waist and the length is mostly irrelevant. The condition while used was still faring better than your guest's jeans were; another article of clothing deemed fit for the trash. You also grab a t-shirt similar to your guest's previous one and then debate over bringing him a pair of underwear. You never know who will be picky about undergarments but you decide to let him decide to wear them or not. With the articles of clothing in hand, you return to the bathroom.

"Here you go, son," you announce as you pass him the clothes, pointedly not checking if his tail is covering him. But by looking up you do notice his ears twitch at the moniker. "There is a pair of scissors in the medicine cabinet for your alteration needs. If you require anything else, I am merely downstairs." He nods his thanks and then closes the door on you again, a little bit gentler this time.

You return to the kitchen just as the timer for the broiler goes off and you pull out the perfectly golden brown salmon and return to making the rest of the sides and the sauce. And you are just putting on the final touches when he shows up again. He's just casually leaning against the doorframe. The only reason you know he is there is because you move so much around the kitchen that there isn't anywhere he could hide from you. Not that he is hiding from you.

"Hey old man, what's for dinner?"

"Salmon with wasabi cream and green beans."

"Pair that with a cold one and there isn't anything on that list I don't like."

"A cold one?" You raise an eyebrow at that. You had him pegged at being your son's age, maybe just a little bit older, but not by the couple of years needed to causally request a beer with dinner.

"Yeah, a tall apple juice if you don't mind." He pushes off the wall and moves towards the island where you have all the food prepared. His hand pauses over the two plates waiting but it's only momentary before he's heaping food onto one of them. You smile at him and go to prepare drinks for the two of you, apple juice for him (from your son's stash) and ice water for yourself.

When you turn back around, you catch him leaning over the table for one of the rolls you have in a basket in the middle of the island and you notice that he really did cut a hole into the pants just under the waistband between his back pockets. Then he's dropping two rolls onto either plate and handing one to you. You nod your head at your full hands and he huffs a small laugh.

"Dinner table?"

"The room to the left.

"Cool."

The two of you sit down at the table and you relax into the atmosphere. Even when your son was here, the two of you didn't sit at the table. He was running around hanging out with all of his old pre-college friends. So it's comforting nostalgia you feel as you sit with your guest.

You don't comment when you notice him bowing his head briefly. But then he is digging into his food and moaning loudly. The sounds he is making is nearly indecent, making you blush a little, but he doesn't comment on that either. You start to tuck into your dinner as well.

"M' ame 'z 'ave."

"Don't speak with your mouth full please."

He quickly swallows, looks tempted to take another bite, but then he dabs at his mouth with a napkin. "My name is Dave."

"Pleasure to meet you, Dave. I'm-"

"Ain't seen anyone so nice and this good of a cook. I'd ask for your secrets but then I wouldn't need you to cook for me anymore and that would be a shame because you seriously know your way around the kitchen because this is magic. I mean, it's pure gold in my mouth. I didn't know wasabi could take this good. Mostly I use that stuff to clean out my sinuses because otherwise I like my bait fresh and clean and fairly unmolested. Like sashimi is the best with tuna being the top. Well, the rankings might be shifted now because of this magnificent masterpiece in front of me which I am ignoring and obviously need to rectify immediately." And he goes back to eating with gusto.

You meanwhile have quietly finished off your piece of salmon. You enjoy the long rambles he seems to fall into. The cadence of his voice is soothing and it lets you learn about him in small bits and pieces. It's also flattering to hear someone enjoy your food. Your son lost the need to comment on it because it was so common place. You are sure that after a year of college he'll start up again if winter break was any indication of things to come.

The conversation around mouthful of dinner encompass smaller topics from cooking techniques and flavor combinations that Dave's experienced and you have used before to the beautiful weather that you were enjoying just before he walked into your life. You don't bring up where he came from or his unique situation. Instead you get a couple more glimpses of who he is from the rambles interspersed between bites.

After he clears his plate of all bits of food, you notice him staring at the pool of cream sauce on the plate. You also notice that his glass is empty.

"Would you like some more juice?" you ask upon standing.

"Oh hell yeah, yes please." You see him reach for his plate out of the corner of your eye as you exit the room. You don't comment on his plate's particular cleanliness when you return. Or the dab of cream on the tip of his nose that he furiously brushes away with the shoulder of his shirt when he finally notices it. The shirt hangs loosely on him but it's in much better shape than his previous one.

You chat a little bit more over your second glasses and you happen to learn that he's originally from Texas which explains the small bit of accent he slips in and out of during his rambles. He's relatively new to the Washington area and you are just glad he came during the end of spring with the state his clothes were in. He wouldn't have done well with the northern winters.

Eventually you collect the plates and take them to the kitchen to quickly wash up. He follows along, his bare feet making almost no noise against the tile. He leans up against the counter and watches you fill the sink with hot soapy water. You own a dishwashing machine and it's in perfect working condition but you've gotten into the habit of hand washing everything, especially since it's usually just you. The silence that falls over the sound of rushing water is companionable and not awkward. At least for you. But you think him as well, as you don't notice any twitching coming from him. His ears are up in a relaxed position at the top of his head and his tail swishes languidly by his knees. It looks to be in much better condition now. You wonder how much conditioner he used on it.

When you start to put the wet dishes on the rack to air dry, you are pleasantly surprised when he leans forward, picks up a dish towel, and starts drying them off. You are much appreciative especially after as soon as you finish with the last dirty pan, you simply dry your hands and then return all of the dishes to their proper location and restoring order to your kitchen once again. His eyes track you across the room, as if noting where each thing belongs.

When you are done you invite him into the living room where you usually watch the evening news to keep track of the world that goes on outside. It's usually not very pleasant but you should not turn a blind eye to it just because it is unpleasant.

You are just about to sit down in your usual leather recliner when he speaks up.

"Hey old man, ya got a brush around here? Not that ratty old thing up in the bathroom that I think has something growing on it. Your kid prolly took all the good ones, hoarding them so he can correct his bouffant at any given time," Dave continues to ramble as you nod and head to the guest bathroom to see if you have any spares there. You'll need one with stiff wide bristles to get through his tail, which is what you assume is the purpose of the errand. "He probably keeps a couple tucked up under his sleeves so that he can whip it out any time he catches his reflection in a near by mirror, window, reflection on someone else sunglasses. I've actually had that one happen to me. Someone used my shades as a mirror while I was still wearing them. Do you know how awkward it was to have someone checking to see if they had anything in their teeth that close up. And they did. They actually had a piece of broccoli tucked all up in their grill. Wow yes, that is the perfect brush."

He almost snags the green plastic brush out of your hands but his self control comes back just in time. You put the brush into his hands and he nearly rushes back to the couch. You say nearly because while he moved quickly, he was with graceful supine movements that made you think of water slipping away. By the time you reach your recliner and manage to sit down this time, he's curled up on one end of the couch with his tail laid against his thigh and the brush running through it smoothly. You flick on the television just to remind yourself that it is rude to stare at your guests. That doesn't stop you from watching out of the corner of your eye the care he takes to work out each and every knot out of his tail until every fur lays straight. He gives it an experimental flick out in the space next to him before curling it back around himself with sleek, shiny grace.

You barely manage to turn your head back to the screen before he looks up, but the small smirk on his lips makes you believe he still caught you looking. But at the same time he seems to preen under the attention so you don't think he minds too much. He continues to stroke his tail while the two of you watch the news and it makes you wonder how soft the white fur really is.

He actually yawns before you just as the news is ending. You aren't sure of the protocol for hosting a... you don't quite want to call him a stray, but it's hard not to with what you've gleaned from the situation. He hasn't mentioned any other family or any other home besides the one in far away Texas. You doubt he has one here is Washington otherwise he would have left by now. You aren't one to turn away a guest, even if he more stranger than friend. But how to pose the offer to him?

"Hey old man, I-" he interrupts himself with another yawn which reminds you of the dark circles under his eyes, "I need a bed. I mean, at this point I'd take the couch or even the kitchen table with a few blankets of course. And a pillow would be nice. A nice firm one, not one of those floppy too soft ones that you just sink right through until your head is touching the mattress and you wonder what's the point as you are smothered with the two sides of the pillow that didn't quite deflate when you touched them."

"With my son absent, I do indeed have a spare bedroom if you don't mind some slightly stale sheets."

"Do you hear me complaining, old man? I just announced that I'd take a fleece dog bed on the porch if that meant I could get some shut eye on a surface softer than concrete."

"Shall we retire for the night?"

"I think that would be a good idea before I keel over outta exhaustion," he agrees with you as you both climb to your feet. You lead the way again upstairs and he follows you as you show the way to your son's room. But just as you push open your son's door, he walks past you to the next door down the hall, your room.

"Hey old man, I'm taking this one." He says it like a statement but his brows are knit together in uncertainty. He looks so pitiful standing there in the silhouette of your doorway, shoulders hunched higher than he probably wants, tail tucked closely against his legs, ears flattened. Who are you to deny him?

"Sleep well, Dave," you tell him before stepping into your son's room. You hope that he is an early riser so that you won't disturb him in the morning when you need to change into tomorrow's outfit. But you push the worries out of you head as you strip down to your boxers and crawl into your son's bed, catching whiffs of the young man's cologne. You hadn't had a chance to wash sheets after spring break. Honestly you were only planning on washing them just before he returned home for summer. That's what you get for procrastinating, you think as you drift off to sleep.


	2. Day 2

Morning finds you like usual. Your internal clock wakes you before your alarm goes off. Soft morning light is streaming in from an unfamiliar window and it takes a second for you to place yourself in your son's room. Then another moment to remember why you are in your son's room. And then another to remember your strange guest of yesterday.

You climb to your feet with a soft groan of aching muscles made stiff by the sedentary nature of sleep. After gathering up your clothes from yesterday, you slip out into the hall quietly, but realize that your sneaky nature is a moot point as your bedroom door stands wide open. You are still careful when you enter, habit from years of trading pranks with your son, but again it's wasted effort as your room is empty. There was a concerted effort to remake the bed just as he had probably found it when he retired last night, with only a few subtle differences in style. You smile softly and correct those differences and run a hand along the smoothed blankets. Cold. He must have left fairly early.

A small pile of money, crumpled bills and coins sit on your otherwise clear nightstand along with a small white note. You pick it up and read the word "rent" scrawled out on it in red ink. You frown a bit. Guests do not need to pay 'rent' in your house.

You quickly find and don a quick outfit for the morning, some shorts and a t-shirt, before you collect the money in your hand, smoothing out the bills and unconsciously sorting the coins by denomination. Hopefully you can return this before he leaves. Surely he needs it more than you do.

But as much as you hope, your other prediction proves true when you reach the kitchen downstairs and don't see your guest anywhere. He left already. And without saying good morning or good bye. How rude.

You pull out an empty jar from your spice cabinet and drop the rent into it, holding onto it for a later purpose, whatever that may be.

You go about your morning routine; coffee, newspaper, sudoku (with no sign of your guest, you suppose he really did leave) before you return upstairs to complete your morning ablutions. Shower, shave, style, and an actual outfit for the day. Even though you don't go into the office as often as you used to with the modernization of home offices, you still feel much more productive in slacks and a button down shirt.

And speaking of work, it is just about time to call into the office and check out how everything is going. Your study is a small room, no larger than one of your old cubicles. It is full of papers, notebooks, a copy/fax/printer machine, a computer, and a phone. It's everything you need to keep track of your little part of the Crocker Corp. While the computer boots up you dial out to your team lead and get the updates. You bounce your project ideas off to him and then ask him to pass on to everyone there to have a great day. You spend the next several hours going through emails and filling out paperwork as per your usual work day. Once again you finish what you have to do early, just in time for lunch.

You go to the kitchen to make a sandwich. But when you go to the refrigerator to grab your sandwich meats and cheeses, you notice some is missing. And by some, you mean a large portion. Glancing over at the loaf of bread you were working on, proves the same state. You are surprised but also glad that he foraged for himself. You make your sandwich and enjoy it with a tall glass of milk. You have several errands that you need to run today, including a modified grocery list.

At the store you find yourself getting more apple juice to replace the portion that you shared last night. And more sandwich making supplies. Then as you are passing the seafood department you see a sale. You pick up a package of fresh tilapia and then detour through the store as a dinner idea puts itself together. Flour tortillas, cilantro, lettuce, limes, avocado, a small onion, a garlic clove, heirloom tomatoes, and some sour cream.

When you get home there is enough time to put away all of the collected groceries, to run a vacuum over the floor in the living room, picking up the small pile of hair that apparently came out with the brushings. Not nearly as bad as a real cat, according to the complaints of your cat-owning coworkers, but the comparison is amusing, and one that you will be keeping to yourself.

And then it is time for your afternoon pipe. You picked up the habit when you were much younger, when you asked your father if you could join him as he smoked his own pipe. It was a way to connect to your father at the time, pushing through the initial coughing and bad taste until you found a perfect combination that you enjoyed. You haven't varied much from that combination over the years, though you will try the occasional new brand as you see them in the store. But you'll always remember your father with his pipe sitting on the porch.

You light your pipe with a couple gentle puffs and then settle on your porch in the warm golden light that pours over your calm quaint neighborhood. You look down the street at all the tidy yards and well kept house fronts. You hear the happy screams of children far off and hidden by privacy screens and fences that surround your neighbor's backyards. You wonder slightly if your neighbors keep the inside of their houses as neat and tidy as you do, give or take the messes that children can make. Your son always had a prank or a project that would clutter up and sprawl out from whatever work place he had taken up while you constantly battled on the front lines to keep some quiet order. You wonder if your neighbors are as vigilant with their own or if they just hide their junk behind the pretty veneer of their houses. As you let out a long breath, you imagine the thought being blown away with the smoke and the landscape of your neighborhood becomes its usual self again.

Well almost.

You are pleasantly surprised by the sight of Dave walking down the sidewalk again. This time the cigarette hanging from his lips isn't lit. He bounds right up your porch and leans against the post just like he had yesterday.

"Hey old man, I need a light."

You dutifully slip the matchbook out of your shirt pocket and then with one hand you open it up, bend a match out, close it, bend the match down to the strip and then flick your thumb to light it. You can tell he's impressed by the high arching eyebrow peeking over his shades. But otherwise he just calmly leans over to dip his cigarette tip into the fire, puffing gently to light it. As soon as he leans back, you wave your match out and finally use both hands to rip the used match out before tucking the rest of the book back into your pocket.

It's again a companionable silence between the two of you as you smoke your respective sources of tobacco. It's quite comforting to share the experience with someone. Your son never picked up the habit for which you are slightly glad of. The health concerns outweigh the nostalgic concept of passing it onto your son. Cigarettes aren't a healthy option either but you have no leg to stand on unless you want to be called out as a hypocrite.

He finishes his cigarette and crushes the stub out in the flower pot again before announcing, "I'm gonna go take a shower now."

You nod and he lets himself into your house. "Don't forget to take off your shoes." You hear the thumps of his converses hitting the floor loosely just as the door closes. You finish your smoke and tamp out your pipe and head in yourself. You hear the water running up the pipes to the shower as you climb the stairs. You find another old pair of shorts from your son's drawers, a fresh shirt, and another pair of boxers. You fold them up and then leave them in a neat pile by the bathroom door. Then you go to the kitchen to get dinner started.

You pull out all of the ingredients and quickly chop them up as necessary before getting out the pan and drizzling olive oil on it. The onion and garlic are sauteed in the skillet first until their aromas fill the kitchen. The tilapia fillets are placed and cooked until the flesh starts to flake. The tomatoes, cilantro, and lime juice are added next and again sauteed until soft. Then you take a spoon and break up the fish, mixing everything together before adding a bit of salt and pepper to your taste.

You are setting that aside and turning to heat up the tortillas when you hear from upstairs, "Hey old ma- oh, nevermind!" and you assume that he found the new clothes. With the tortillas warming, you start shredding the lettuce and setting out the plates. You are pouring a glass of apple juice when Dave arrives.

"So what we having tonight, old man?"

"Tilapia tacos."

"Fish tacos?" Dave repeats with a tilt of his head. "As delicious a delicacy as they can be, I'm normally more of a corn dog fan, but I'm sure your fish tacos are delicious, old man."

You have a feeling that the smirk that accompanies his words are implying something more than you are catching onto. Though you cannot possibly conceive of anything that can construed from tilapia tacos. Or corn dogs for that matter. He catches your frown and just shakes his head as he helps you carry all of the dishes to the other room. As it is a meal that you fix as you eat, there is a bit more than last night.

There is another quick bowing of his head before he is constructing his first taco. Yours comes out a little neater than his and it's noticeable when you both pick them up at the same time and most of his ends up back on the plate. You manage to eat yours with a little more couth.

"Oh my god," he exclaims after he swallows a large mouthful. "These are delicious." You take the accompanying (and somewhat inappropriate) sounds he makes as high praise.

At the end of the second taco he's pretty much picking up pieces straight off the plate with his fingers. You excuse yourself with a laugh to dash to the kitchen to grab a handful of napkins and a fork which you subtly slip next to his plate.

He ignores the fork in favor of the using the napkins to clean up the mess that has managed to drip down his forearms. "So I heard this song on the radio today. I don't know what station it was on because it wasn't really like anything else I've heard before. I thought it was something old timey but then it has this modern beat to it like it was trying to be electronic or dub, but it still wasn't quite what's on the circuit. I thought I knew what the old style was but then I couldn't remember the word like my brain redacted it so very helpfully because classified information, yo. But eventually my mind decided I had high enough clearance and reminded me that I took swing classes back when I was a tiny brat and forced to. So combine swing music with electro and low and behold there is such a thing as electroswing. I looked it up and everything. It's some good shit. I think even you would appreciate it, old man."

"Electroswing, huh? Sounds interesting."

"I'll help you pull it up on your computer."

"Oh, but my computer isn't that spectacular. I use it only for work not much else. But-"

"We need to get ya into the modern day and age, old man."

"But I'm sure you can find a sample or two of it on my smart phone."

"Oh shit, you are tech savvy. Well, partially. But yeah that's cool I'll get you some jams. Maybe while you-" He grabs his next newly made taco, better constructed than previously as he learns the best way to do so, and shoves it into his mouth to stop what ever line he was about to say. The blush on his cheeks has you intrigued. But again you don't comment on it.

You don't comment on a lot of it. You think because you are afraid you'll startle him and scare him away and for some reason you really don't want to do that. He's pushy and rude and has a bit of a foul mouth (not that you haven't caught your son saying worse), but at the same time you are sure he is a stray of some sort and if you can offer him a safe shelter, so be it. A handful of clothes and a couple of dinners aren't that much, especially on a budget like yours. It is very much worth it.

He polishes off two more tacos and uses up the last of the tortillas. He then continues to dig into the excess of the tilapia mix. "So are you going to feed me fish every night? 'Cause you know cats eat other things besides fish. I mean, I like fish, but I'm a big cat. I eat birds and wildebeest and giraffes too." The criticism is deadpanned so you almost take him seriously. Until you think through what examples he gave you.

"Honestly I never mean anything by it, Dave," you apologize, watching his ears twitch up at his name. "I'll see what I can do to import some antelope steaks. I haven't had some of those in forever."

His jaw drops as he apparently didn't expect the sass thrown back at him with the same sauve that he delivered it. When he manages to close his mouth, a grin creeps onto it and his shoulder bounces lightly with the hint of laughter.

He finishes off the food and helps carry the plates back into the kitchen. Once again he helps dry the dishes and even assists with putting away the dishes. When the two of you are finished, he moves towards the living room first.

"Hey old man, still got that brush laying around?"

"Of course."

"Then..." Dave turns away from you so you can see his face. "Brush my tail for me, will ya? I can get the tip all done up until it's feels as silky and nice as cloud nine and even the most pampered diva would be jealous of my lack of split ends and voluminous swish, but the base of it is a bit harder to reach being attached to my backside and all. Would be much easier if I could detach it and clip it back on like all the little kiddies who mean me on the street believe and try to test with their tiny grubby little hands. Some of those buggers tug hard too."

"Yes, I will brush you if you wish."

"Sweet. Grab your phone and the brush and I'll go get settled." You obey and wander off to find the two requested times. When you get back he's not quite as tightly curled up on the couch with the television on and playing the news already. You carefully sit down next to him and seconds later his tail has flopped into your lap. He snatches the phone out of your hand and is clicking away at the options, supposedly looking up that electroswing that he mentioned during dinner.

You gently run your hand along his tail and admire its texture. It's softer than you imagined it to be. It is a luxurious white cloud that anyone would be jealous of, including those divas he mentioned. Starting fairly near the tip you run the brush down and all the way out, gingerly getting uses to how his fur passes through the bristles. You slowly work your way up, brushing in sections until each are as silky smooth and free of knots as the last. You are especially careful with any knots you do find, usually in the deeper sections of his tail. But except for the occasional twitch of his ears back against his head, he doesn't seem to argue against your ministrations.

He mutes the television every once in a while to play a song that he finds and you find that you do actually enjoy what he calls electroswing. There are particular artists that you enjoy over others, but the whole genre is appealing.

He turns in his seat to face away from you and to offer a better angle for you to get the base of his tail. The knots and brushings get a little rougher here as he apparently didn't cover this part during last night's groomings. He gets twitchier too, but not always in pain based on the direction his ears go in. You catch almost a subsonic vibration coming from him and wonder if you are really truly hearing the beginnings of a purr.

As you work closer and closer to the base, an odd phenomenon starts to occur. And you are not sure how much Dave is actually aware of the fact that he is slowly tipping forward and raising his hips towards you. You can no longer excuse it as giving you better access to his tail as it is starting to hinder your reach. But he's almost tipped all the way forward with his backside up in the air when you finally pull the brush away, unable to do more, and cough lightly.

He of course startles and scrambles against the couch trying to right himself quickly and remove his posterior from your line of sight. "Shit! Sorry! Elevator butt. Or at least that's what the internet calls it as they tape thousands of cats being afflicted by butt scratches and post them to youtube for the lawls and likes. And by afflicted I mean that they really enjoy it and I guess I really enjoy it too and wow yeah that was hella embarrassing and probably why I haven't let anyone do that in a very long time not since..." he trails off, looking down at the ground, the blush spots still high on his dark cheeks. But you also notice that the shadows under his eyes aren't as dark as before, but they still have a long time until fully recovered.

"It's alright. It just made it harder to continue. Would you like any more tonight?" you offer softly, not embarrassed at all, especially as you connect the behavior to an automatic response.

"Nah, I'm good. Thanks though. It already feels better." He playfully flicks his tail in the air in front of the two of you, schooling those rough emotions you caught a glimpse of behind a mask of a soft smirk. "I'ma call it quits early tonight though." He stretches and yawns, arching his back almost all the way to the back of the couch, his taut stomach showing off where the short shirt has pulled up. But then he relaxes back down with a sigh and flashes you a real smile and at his distance you catch sight of his sharper than usual teeth. Then he's bouncing away and waving at you from the bottom of the steps. "Night, old man."

"Sleep well, Dave," you call after him before turning back to the news. They are beginning the weather forecast so you sit through that before retiring yourself to John's room for the night.


	3. Day 3

It's the same the next morning when you wake as the morning before. Your bed is empty and remade and a stack of money is on the nightstand. It's a little bit neater and only needs a small reshuffling in your hand as you take it downstairs to add to the jar that you started. A quick check on your sandwich supplies confirms that he's made himself something before he left. You go through your morning routine; coffee, newspaper, sudoku, shower, shave, style, and dress for work. You call into work and talk through a snarl with a recent marketing project. There are a couple more tangles in your email and you have to make several calls to track down a lost order but you get it all resolved in time for lunch. No one will ever say you don't work efficiently.

You make your usual sandwich before you do a little bit of house chores. You check on your guest bathroom and find Dave's old clothes piled up in the trash can and yesterday's outfit shoved into the corner behind the door. You shake your head and put the pieces in the laundry instead. You are about to dump the bathroom trash can into a garbage bag to take out when you curiously take a moment to look at the tags of his old clothes, making note of the sizes. Then you bag them and finish emptying out the waste baskets in the rest of the house.

Next are errands that take you to the local strip mall where there are several clothing stores that cater to the younger generation and you pick up some jeans and some t-shirts that will actually fit your guest for after his shower. If he decides to return.

Then groceries for the dinner that you have in mind. You return home with plenty of time to put everything away and make the batter ahead of time. When the afternoon sun enters your kitchen window you set it aside and go sit out on your porch with your pipe.

You let out a soft sigh hidden in a puff of smoke when you see him walking down the street. He once again has an unlit cigarette when he comes up to your porch.

"Hey old man, show me that matchbook trick again."

And so it starts.

You share a smoke with him until he goes to take a shower. You've already laid out a new outfit, this time with new clothes just for him, on the bathroom counter, so you get straight to work on dinner. Handmade corn dogs would be tricky if your son hadn't given you that fryer three Father's Days ago. You had spent the next week frying anything the internet suggested from meats and vegetables to candy and desserts. Your favorite was the Twinkie. Your son's favorite was bacon. After that week of gratuitous calories, you only pulled the fryer down for particular occasions.

You spear the hot dogs (of the least questionable brand) with skewers and the dip and roll them in the batter. A quick dip through the fryer and they come out perfectly golden. At least they start to after your four or fifth try. But you soon get the hang of it and start piling up your feast. Once those are all complete you start raiding your refrigerator and pantry for dipping sauces.

You hadn't thought ahead for this part of the meal so you will have to get creative. The classic would be mustard which you have plenty of, none of that yellow poison though. This was all high quality grey poupon with the seeds still in it to give it texture. You think a small bowl of ranch with fresh chopped herbs will be nice. Sour cream and chives. Cream cheese and worcester sauce whipped up together. You find a small bottle of barbeque sauce and pour it into another little dish. You find some hot sauce and ketchup. You shrug and decide to combine them, mixing them thoroughly in the small dish.

You have just exhausted any further options in the pantry and are turning back around when you catch Dave with a corndog halfway to his mouth. He catches your bemused smirk and freezes.

"Uh... they look good? I mean, they look delicious and smell like heaven. I could smell them even over the floral tones of the shampoo and steam upstairs. Do you know how hard it is to clean yourself when you are drooling all over yourself? It's pretty hard, but I managed and then I saw these babies and I couldn't help myself. I mean, these are professional level shit without the frost burn that I'm used to."

"Feel free to enjoy them. I suppose we can have an informal dinner tonight." You read the relief in Dave's frame just moments before he shoves the corn dog into his mouth. "Just mind the wooden stick."

He bites through the fluffy batter and tears into the meat, his sharp teeth flashing briefly. He moans around the bite, with tones that make you blush slightly not that he notices with his preoccupation with the food, and quickly swallows to take another. You finish up arranging dinner by making the drinks and then you pull out the stools so that the two of you can sit around the kitchen island comfortably. He's gnawing on the crispy parts left on the stick by the time you both sit down.

"Though you know even though I mention something off hand doesn't mean you have to go out and get them immediately. But in case that is like a compulsion of yours, I'd like filet mignon wrapped in bacon with a side of lobster and damn I'm making myself drool again." He reaches for another corn dog, this time dipping it into the ketchup first before taking over half of it into his mouth at once. He bites through it, barely missing the tip of the skewer, and chews about once before a look of horror crosses his face. You are immediately concerned with his pained look as he quickly finishes the mouth full and then lunges for his apple juice, chugging the entire glass before breathing.

"Dave, are you alright?"

"No! No I'm not. What the hell was that? What have you done to the innocent ketchup because I was sure that was ketchup not the concoction straight from the gates of hell that it actually was. I mean, what did ketchup ever do to you that you've made it betray it's most beloved fan?"

"Oh. Forgive me, Dave. It's just that I suppose my son and I have different tastes. We prefer the spicier side of things and I supposed I just enhanced the ketchup with some hot sauce."

"Enhanced? Enhanced? Wow, old man. And here I thought you were perfect. Some genie granting me my every wish even before I ask for it but here you show your true form of a devil that I've sold my soul to and this is the reaping because you tricked me. You're evil. An evil genius."

Even while he is denouncing your cooking merits, you can't help but smile as his melodramatic rambles as you move around the kitchen. You pull out the ketchup again and a fresh dish and under his cautious eye you remake the condiment, this time without the hot sauce. When you pass it over to Dave, he nearly snatches it out of your hands, holding back with just a modicum of restraint. He does however keep it closest to him and puts the 'traitorous' version far away.

"Feel free to try the others as well, Dave."

"Because you have filled me with such trust. Who knows what hellish ingredients you've tucked away into each of them. I mean, I think that is ranch but it could be ranch with vinegar. And sour cream and grass clippings. And onion dip with syrup."

"Actually that last one is cream cheese and worcester sauce."

"See!" Dave's ears are standing straight up in a comical combination with his eyebrows arching up over the strange triangular shades and accusatory pointing with the remaining half of the corn dog.

"Alright, alright. You don't have to try any of the others. I'll just enjoy them myself." And you do so by picking up a corn dog and choosing one of the other sauces yourself. He continues to watch you suspiciously as you take a bite. You absently note the changes to his ears and tail as you eat your corn dog. His face remains the same except there is a bit more red on his cheeks than before but it's hard to tell after his surprise with the hot sauce. He almost angrily returns to his dish of ketchup and finishes off his own corn dog before turning for a third.

On the fourth you catch him eyeing the other sauces and then he timidly dips the end of his into the first one for a taste. He does so with each, tasting with actual contemplation instead of just inhaling the food. He makes a grimace with the cream cheese one, but that was a stretch even for you to combine with corn dogs, but he goes back for bigger bites of the other two sauces which you are enjoying.

It's harder to eat the lower half of the corn dogs and on one particularly tricky bite, you end up smearing the ranch on one side of your mouth, almost all over your cheek. Once again he freezes when he catches sight of you and his ears twitch again. You laugh and ask him to pass you a napkin to clean up your mess. It takes him a moment to respond but he does pass you one and then ducks his head to return to eating with a passion. It's nice to see someone enjoying your food with such passion, even while trying new things.

You can only eat three corn dogs and even then you are feeling a bit heavy afterwards but Dave has managed to go through the majority of the rest, getting up to a total of eight which is impressive for a boy with his slight frame. You can see him eyeing for a ninth but you interrupt him by offering to save it and the others for later, possibly for lunch. He agrees and the two of you work together to put them away and clean up.

He's a bit fascinated with the fryer, noting the consistency of the oil when you started dishes and when you finally put it back onto the shelf. He watches with wide eyes and ask many questions which you answer patiently about how it works and what you've tried before. You think he might be drooling again when you mention your son's favorite of fried bacon.

The two of you eventually migrate to the living room for your nightly news. He's curled up comfortably on one end of the couch. You hesitate for a moment in deciding between the couch and your recliner. Your decision is made for you when Dave tilts his head subtly towards the brush still lying on the coffee table. You mentally chastise yourself for leaving it out over night but its convenience is helpful as you pick it up and sit on the couch, giving Dave enough room to rearrange himself to you. But instead of offering you his tail, he gingerly lays his head on your lap, slipping his shades off and putting them where the brush had been. You are a bit surprised but also honored at the intimacy that he is offering you. Despite your gaffe with the hot sauce in the ketchup.

There aren't any knots or snarls to work out of his hair and the short fur covering his ears, but you suppose that's not quite the purpose of this arrangement. By the second story of the night, you feel the subsonic purring again, going almost directly into your leg. By the first commercial, it's no longer below hearing but actually audible now. By the weather, it's almost drowning out the television. Not that you are going to stop and complain about the turn of events. His hair is silky soft sliding between your fingers (you've abandoned the brush at his point). You use the tips of your fingers to get all the way down to his scalp which always makes the purring turn up a notch. You suppose he might not be aware of it just as he was startled the night before by his feline behavior.

The late night shows start their introduction at the same time you yawn. But Dave doesn't stir at all. In fact, you think he might be asleep on your lap. You are loath to stir him but the couch is no place for an old man like you to stay the night. It would do terror on your back and neck.

"Dave? Dave, let's move you to a bed," you start gently while rocking his shoulder.

"Huh? Mrow?" You feel him begin to stir. He really was asleep. He sits up a little and blinks around until his eyes finally focus on you. You are taken aback at how soft and open his face is for a moment before it returns to normal. You don't think your heart will be normal after the cute sounds he made upon waking up. "Oh. Oh shit. Sorry I didn't mean to crash." He scrambles for his shades, hesitant to put them on because of the darkness of the room after you turn off the television. But he clutches them to his chest and you can see him take a deep breath to school his emotions again. He looks a bit more put together, a little tougher, a little, dare an old man like you say it, a little cooler. But for all that, he does look a little better than when he first showed up.

"It's perfectly fine, Dave. I just think that a bed will give more rest."

"Right, right."

The two of you climb to your feet, you a little less gracefully after holding still for so long. You're joints are stiff but you grin and bear it. He's stuffed his hands into his pockets and his shoulders are a bit hunched like he's weary. You're not sure why but you definitely don't like the look. You shepard him up the stairs and he stiffens up again when you stop by your son's room again. He glances down the hall towards your room, or his temporary room you suppose. He looks like he's about to ask for something but you're not sure about what.

To break the silence you open your son's room and bid him a soft, "Good night, Dave."

His shoulders drop again. "Night, old man. And... thanks." The last word comes out so softly that you would have missed it if you hadn't been waiting for it. He turns quickly and almost bolts down the hall. You wait for his door to close first before you close yours.

As you lay on your son's bed you think about it. That soft small thanks. You suppose it could be for a lot of things because you've given the boy so much so freely. Not that you'd ever ask for anything in return. You are sure he's seen the 'rent' jar sitting out in the kitchen even though he leaves it untouched. From the first shower and subsequent showers you've opened your house to him. You're happy to provide him the dinners and apparent lunches. You are even happier for the kind feedback. You are content to provide whatever... grooming he needs. You feel that he was also a bit starved for kind attention along with his need for food and sleep. Then you realize the thanks could have been directed as his new clothes as well which you absently realized he was wearing, and wearing well. You make a mental note to buy more because you want him to be as comfortable as possible.

That's your last thought before you fall to sleep.


	4. Day 4

The next day is routine as ever. A pile of 'rent' is on your nightstand made of fewer but larger bills and no coins anymore. You're bed is neater and straighter and put together much like you would have done yourself. Several sandwiches worth of materials are missing you note as you make your coffee. Then it's newspaper, sudoku, shower, shave, style, and dress for work. A call into the office finds a larger than usual problem that takes you three hours, mostly on the phone reaching out to parties all across the states, to unravel the mystery of the phantom inventory. You chuckle to yourself over the name you've assigned the problem. You will have to bring it up to Dave and see if it's as quaint as you think it is.

You have to take your lunch later than usual which leaves you less time for shopping but you know how to shop efficiently. Too many school projects put off until the last minute has trained you to the layouts of many stores. You buy a small collection of clothes in various styles to give your guest more options than your choice because you know you can be fairly conservative as your son has complained a couple of times.

You hesitate in front of a store that sells suitcases. Now that you have a wardrobe for your guest, you realize that he doesn't quite have anything to keep them in. But you wonder what sort of message a suitcase would send him. It's a travel item but you don't want him to feel unwelcomed. But at the same time, anything more substantial might make him feel trapped or obligated. You sigh and bite the bullet, giving yourself the option of deciding how to present it later.

Groceries are handled quickly, replacing your sharply dwindling sandwich supplies and dinner for tonight. His extravagant menu recommendation is a little extreme but there is a sale on ribeyes and you have time to put together a marinade that will tenderize the tougher meat. You get some fresh vegetables as well and two potatoes to bake.

You head home and manage to get the marinade put together before it's the usual time to go smoke your pipe. Normally you wouldn't care about your timing, but that's changed. You seem to have plenty of time though as he shows up just as you are nearing the end of your smoke. As you watch him walk up, you're not one hundred percent sure but you think he might have a limp which instantly makes you concerned. But you don't know how to bring it up so you ignore it in favor of lighting his cigarette for him and watching his feature relax under the intake of nicotine. You watch how the smoke curls around his head, twisted and pushed by the calm spring breeze. It's silent between the two of you. You tamp out your pipe and patiently wait for him to finish his cigarette before the two of you turn into the house together.

"Hey, old man. Thanks for the new threads."

"You are very welcomed, Dave. There are more fresh ones in the master bedroom."

"Really?"

"Let me know if there is something you dislike or would like instead and I will correct it. My son tells me that I have a poor sense of style."

"No way. You are dapper as fuck. I mean, no one else pulls off the button down slacks outfit more naturally and I have seen a lot of suits in my life. Like seriously, if I ever need a suit for anything formal, I am totally having you shop with me to make me look as good as you do." A blush creeps up on his face as he continues to talk. You hold up a hand to stop him and he looks both mortified that he let out that particular ramble and relieved that you stopped him.

"Please, they are your clothes now, I want to make sure they appeal to your tastes."

"Ah." Dave runs a nervous hand through his hair. "Thanks, old man."

"Again, you are welcomed. I'll be probably be out back when you finish up."

He looks at you quizzically and then he nods and disappears upstairs. You head to the kitchen to prepare dinner.

True to your warning, you are outside on the back patio grilling on your latest Father's Day gift when you hear the back door creak open. Not even a soft walker like Dave would be able to sneak out of that door. He see him pause and sniff the air before coming over.

"Steak? You didn't..."

"I didn't get the cut that you wanted and I forgot the lobster, but-"

"I mention steak and I get steak. Wow, old man, wow." You recognize the 'face palm' from how many times your son has given you one but you catch sight of a bright genuine smile under his hand.

You learn that he eats his steak rare which was fortunate timing since his was done nearly as soon as he told you. You like yours a little more well cooked, not by much, but apparently enough to make Dave groan about your choice, calling it a waste of good meat. You grab the vegetables and potatoes from inside and bring them out as he handles the drinks. The weather is too nice to pass up on the opportunity to eat outside.

He bows his head briefly again, you suppose he might have done it also last night when your back was turned before he attempted to sneak a corndog. Then he digs in with enthusiasm. You know he enjoys the steak without him having to say anything. You are getting used to the sensuous moans that Dave makes over your food. You are very flattered that he likes it so much. It does make you wonder if he's aware at all exactly how he sounds because you have to actively turn your thoughts away from their initial path.

You talk a bit about your day and Dave does laugh lightly at your tale of the phantom inventory. He tells you about a couple interesting tales from his trek across the country. You don't glean any new information about his situation but you do find he has a love for old cars and scenic landscapes. You get the feeling he would have a scrapbook full of images from his travels if he had a camera.

Night falls while you are still talking with him but eventually his eyes turn upwards to the stars. The sky isn't as bright as it could be from all of the light exposure from the suburbs, but apparently it is enough.

"I've always liked stars. I didn't get many when I was little. City was too bright. It was more fun to look down than to look up when I was up on the roof. The apartment was right in the middle of the city. Or at least that's how it felt. I didn't know maps back then. But I felt like I was the center of the world when I stood on the roof like that." You change your view from the stars to look at him. "I felt like I was king. Invincible. But I think all kids feel that way but not all kids had the seat at the top of the world like I did. I had proof that I was awesome. Me and..." In the pale light you see a tear roll down his cheek but you don't think that's why his voice stops. "The stars were bright when I got out of the city. Like, I didn't even realize there was that many of those fucking things up in the sky. I just knew of the brightest ones but then out in the middle of fucking nowhere, there they all were. The longer I stared the more stars there were. The sky was so deep and broad and bright and I couldn't fall asleep because it was so bright and my brain was spinning around until I was asking no one how the stars stayed up there and why they didn't fall down like rain. I mean, I learned that they weren't really on the sky but so far away. But I'll never forget the feeling of that night where the stars were all just right there."

His ramble dies off and you don't know how to pick it up again. You go back to watching the stars, the same as him.

"Hey old man. I got dishes tonight." He pushes himself up to his feet and picks up the plates. He's heading inside before you can argue. So you continue to sit and stare up at the stars. You brush at your face when you feel a tickle on your cheek and your hand comes away wet.

He comes back out with the brush. He doesn't pass it to you but sits back down in his chair with his tail across his lap. You start telling him stories about the constellations that you can see. You've told your son the same stories years ago, but they come back easily. He nods at you and so you continue on as long as he keeps sliding the brush through his tail. Eventually he stops and you fall silent.

"Thanks. I'm gonna turn in now, old man."

"Good night, Dave," you tell him as he slips inside.

You give the grill a once over to make sure nothing is still on and won't burn the house down over night. When you lower the lid however the back of your knuckles brushes the hot metal. You pull your hand away quickly, letting the lid crash down with a loud sound. You cringe as the sound echos around the backyard. You look down at your hand because it stings and hurts but you can't see very well out in the faint light. Everything else checks out on the grill though so you head inside, locking the door behind yourself.

The kitchen is nearly spotless with all of the dishes washed and put away, but in the light you can see the redness across your knuckles and the skin already starting to blister. You head to the sink and run cool water over the area to stop any further burn from heat trapped in the skin. It stings lightly but not too badly. You head to the bathroom to grab the first aid kit but find it empty except for some expired aspirin and a single ghost print bandage. You sigh and wish your son had told you the supplies were getting low.

When you get upstairs the door at the end of the hall is already closed, so you go to the guest bathroom. Unfortunately that first aid kit is in a similar state. Either your son has been getting into more injuries than you realized or he took a supply for his college dorm to keep close on hand instead of buying his own.

You sigh and grimace at your hand. It doesn't need much, just a light wrapping of gauze and some painkillers but now the only source of those would be in the master bath. Through the master bedroom. Where Dave is sleeping. As much as you wish to give Dave his privacy and let him have his much needed sleep and quiet, nothing else would be conveniently open this late.

You pause at the door. You don't want to wake him up but you have to announce your entrance in case he is awake as well. You settle on a compromise and knock softly. You wait a beat and then open the door. The room is dark of course, but you don't suppose Dave actually needed much light if he had a cat's night vision in addition to the other features. But even you can see a small form curled up in the middle of your bed. His breathing is forcibly calm like he's trying to pretend to you that he is asleep. As a father of a boy who spent years perfecting such an art (and still missing it for the most part), you can tell that he isn't truly asleep but you won't call him out on it. He has his reasons as you have yours for invading his privacy. Without whispering an apology you head directly to the bathroom, knowing the route by heart.

You close the door behind you to turn on the light so you don't blind him, squinting a bit at the brightness yourself however. But it's a quick trip to find your first aid kit all neat and organized and full, because you'd never let yours get to the poor state of the others. You wrap a light gauze around your hand to protect the blisters to a degree. You have to take the painkillers dry as you seem to have forgotten to bring up a glass from the kitchen but it's old habit for you. One your son does not understand and professes to be ultra weird.

You turn out the light and let your eyes adjust to the darkness for a little bit before exiting back into the master bedroom. You glance over and find that Dave hasn't move from his previous position. You are almost to the bedroom door when you hear it. It's a faint sniffle of someone who has been crying. You pause and you hear another followed by a whimper. With Dave's penchant for not really knowing the noises he makes all the time, or at least you assume he doesn't, you continue the assumption that these are unbidden as well. You are torn as you want to respect his privacy and give him time and space if that is what he requires. But on the other hand your heart is breaking at the sorrow laden onto those poor soft sounds.

You close the bedroom door. And then you walk over to the bed.

"Dave," you say softly, declaring your presence. He probably knew you were there but you take additional care to make sure he knows you aren't trying to sneak up on him. "Dave, are you alright?" you ask as you sit on the edge of the bed.

There is another half stifled whimper that has you restraining yourself from pulling him directly into your arms and comforting him, but you do not know what's wrong yet.

"'m fine. I'm fucking fine. Leave me the fuck alone." Dave curls up even farther under the sheets, becoming a tight ball.

"Are you-"

"I'm fine." The two words are said with such hurt that you know it's an utter and complete lie but you can't do anything to help him at this point unless he wants you to.

"I'll be in the other room if you need me," you tell him as you stand up.

Dave lets out a pitiful whine and it makes you pause when you turn to leave. Then there is a dark hand wrapped around your wrist holding you in place.

"Shit. Shit, I'm sorry. I- I- fuck. Please don't leave."

You sit back down on the edge of the bed. He's now on his knees facing you. Eyes and hair bright in the night even as his skin bleeds in with the shadows. His tail is down and plastered against the back of his legs. His ears are also lowered. You assume that his eyes are even redder than usual as the faint light through the window catches on wetness on his cheek.

"I'm sorry. I d-didn't mean it. I-I'm not okay."

"It's alright. It's alright not to be okay. I'd like to help though."

"Like you haven't already done enough, old man." Dave brushes a hand across his cheek, a bit of his usual snark in his words.

But then he sinks back down and you just know that it's another wave of sadness hitting him. This time you don't hesitate to reach out for him. You're gentle but as you pull him towards you he doesn't resist. If anything, he just crumbles towards you. Despite his lanky frame and the awkwardness at the edge of the bed, he fits in your lap just right, tucked up underneath your chin. You wrap your arms around his shoulder, one hand coming up to his hair.

"I swear I haven't been a sobbing mess every night. Just... tonight with the stars... it's my brother... Bro used to show me the stars. He's the one that took me to the roof. He told me I was king. I asked him what he was if I was king and he said he was just the lowly prince. I laughed at him. He used to make me laugh a lot. He taught me how to protect myself too. He taught me how to be cool. He gave me my shades. Told me that nothing could get me. That I had to be tough. That I could get anywhere with confidence. Well, confidence and a security badge. He was my everything. We didn't have a lot and what we did have was shitty but it was ours and I've never had a more comfortable concrete block mattress frame. But none of that matter because I had him. I had him and I had the world. I loved him. I loved my Bro."

You feel Dave shake in your arms as his words bring forth more sobs and tears. Your shirt is getting wet but you don't care. You hold him through the happy memories because you know he cherishes them. But you also know that it doesn't stay happy otherwise he wouldn't be here in Washington. He wouldn't be a stray. He'd be in Houston with his brother. You aren't even sure what you are saying back to him but you just keep talking to him, calming soothing things. You don't even think he's listening to more than the rumble in your chest with how tightly he is clinging to you.

"Then it all changed and... and I didn't have Bro. I don't have him anymore. And he promised. He promised he'd always be there for me. He lied. I know he didn't mean to lie but damn it! They made him a liar. He saved me. He got me out. He told me to run and I did. I ran. I-I-" Dave chokes up on his tears and grips tightly at your shirt. You hear the fabric rip a little but the shirt is nothing compared to Dave's pain. You think tears are dripping onto his hair because his hair is wet where you pet it. "Bro always wanted to take me to the Grand Canyon. So I went there. I waited there. For a long time. Even made friends with the park ranger people. I thought for sure Bro would come. I thought for sure he'd get away. He'd come for me. He'd- he'd come back. He'd be my prince again and make me king again but-"

"But he didn't. And you had to move on."

"I went west. Thought about Hollywood. But they are all snooty and I couldn't get a good bed for anything. And I did try a lot. But no one wanted- no one wanted a stray. Not to keep. So I moved on again."

"Then you found me."

"Well you are summing up the story very shortly, but yeah, I found you. Now I am here sobbing into your shirt and making it rags and I'll buy you a new one and I'll pay you back for all the new shit and all the dinners and I'll give you back your bed and fuck!" He's loud and it echos in the room a little bit but then he returns to his quiet mumblings, "I'll move on. I won't cause you anymore-"

"No."

"What?"

"You don't have to move on. You are free to stay as long as you want. And no need to pay anything back, Dave. You don't owe me anything. Everything I've given is given freely because I have plenty. Too much really."

"But-"

"No buts. If you want to move on, you can. But there is no pressure to go or to stay. I've enjoyed your company, Dave. That and your compliments are enough."

He pulls back away from you, his hands still clinging tightly to you, but he looks you in the face as if to read you for a hidden motive. His eyebrows are knitted together as he stares at you. You aren't hiding anything and you think he can read the honesty because his face twists up again as another wave of emotion hits him and he's diving back against you hard enough to make you rock.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you. You don't know what it means to me. These past couple of days... they've been amazing."

"I'm glad, Dave. All you have to do is let me know if you need something, anything."

"Yeah, okay." Silence falls between the two of you for a moment and then, "Actually I got something right now..."

"Yes?"

"Can we lie down? Like can you stay the night? Because this is hella comfortable and wonderful and like chicken soup for this ragged soul and I don't really want to let go but we'll be hating it in the morning, well, I've slept worse before but you'll definitely be hating it especially with such a comfy bed sitting right under our asses going to waste."

"Of course, Dave."

"Cool." He slips from your grip like water to move back towards the center of the bed, kicking down the sheets for you to slip under.

"Would you mind if I removed my pants? I still will be wearing my under things but..."

"Course, course," Dave waves a hand at you, ducking his head a little and you think he might be blushing a little but with the lack of light you have nothing affirmative. You quickly remove your pants, socks, and the remains of your outer shirt, leaving on the white cotton undershirt and then slip under the sheets. It's a little awkward at the level of intimacy that being under the sheets in bed together implies, but you let Dave arrange the two of you to his satisfaction, which turns out to be both of you on your sides facing each other with him tucked inside of your embrace. Your injured hand is thankfully on top and can stay out of the way even if either of you were to move in the night.

You have just closed your eyes when you feel him move and then you feel something odd. You don't react or open your eyes as it happens again. You realize he is gently licking your face, soft... kitty licks. You suppose that it is either in thanks or as a comfort to him. Either way the dry, slightly rough tip of his tongue is not unpleasant against your cheek and jawline. You relax into the situation and fall asleep.


	5. Day 5

You wake in your own bed which is actually a bit startling after the past several days, but it is empty save for yourself. It seems your guest had gotten up and slipped out without waking you, which is a feat unto itself. You glance over and sure enough there is a small pile of money on the night stand which makes your heart sink because you thought you had made it clear last night. Well, you suppose you didn't address that issue directly. When you read the slip of paper that is with the money, it surprisingly reads 'rainy day' instead of rent and you feel your face curl up into a smile.

You make your bed and then head downstairs. You rename the 'rent' jar to its new proper name. You drink your coffee, read the newspaper, and do the sudoku puzzle. Then it's back upstairs to shower, shave, style, and dress for work. You are a bit distracted with your thoughts when you sit down for work, thinking about last night's discussion. Thankfully work is going smooth with or without your help. You are glad you've managed to collect and assemble such a well functioning team. It makes you wonder if they need you at all. Retirement wouldn't be a bad idea but what else would you do for the first part of your day?

While you eat lunch you find yourself wondering about dinner. Dave hadn't mentioned any other suggestions, most likely on purpose so you'd have to think of something on your own. A quick search proves that giraffe honestly isn't a viable option, but wildebeest is. But not for tonight as it would take several days for it to ship here. Furthermore, how does one even cook wildebeest. You suppose that will be an adventure for another time. Instead you flip through your cookbooks and come up with an idea.

Errands are quick today but that just leaves you more time for preparation. You don't suppose your skills would ever get rusty after the many, many cakes you baked for your son over the years. And you are sure you didn't bake as many as he complained about. You just made sure that there was always something sweet for him to munch on even if he did prefer those plastic candy abominations. But it will be nice to pull out the equipment and brush up on your icing skills.

The scent of vanilla and flour fill the kitchen soon enough as batter is prepared. As much as you are a part of the Crocker Corporation, you do actually prefer to bake from scratch, time permitted. You're son has argued the merits of not using the commercial versions, but you still rely on them when time is a factor. Such as today. But you don't think that Dave would mind. Not after you put the additional time towards decorating the cake. You slide the cake pans into the oven and then turn back to the refrigerator.

The actual dinner itself is easy enough that you prepare it in moments. You mix mustard, thyme, salt, and substituting black pepper for the cayenne as Dave mentioned that he doesn't care for the heat. Or at least he didn't care for the hot sauce. It's better to be safe than sorry, you suppose. You turn the chicken breasts in the mixture to coat completely. Then you mix the parmesan and panko in another bowl and dredge the chicken though. You put the chicken on a baking sheet covered with foil and slip it into the oven for later.

You time it perfectly for when the first layers of cake are ready to be pulled out of the ovens. They smell heavenly and the toothpick comes out clean on the first try. While they cool, you whip up the icing which is most definitely homemade. The store bought versions just have too much oil in them and don't stay light and fluffy which is mandatory for the decorations you wish to make. Thankfully you know the recipes and short cuts by heart and once again, it is good timing for when you have all of the icing in bowls or piping bags ready to go, the cakes come out of their pans perfectly. You are worried for a moment there that the top layer would crack but it doesn't and the crumb coat goes on smoothly. Then you add the base layer of icing. And then you get fancy.

As sugary flowers now cover your countertops you think, perhaps a little too late, that you might have made too many flowers for one poor little cake, but you can't help it. They are so easy to put together and after a while it becomes almost therapeutic to make each petal. You finally set down the piping bag and start gently transferring the flowers from their wax paper squares to surface of the cake. And sure enough, you can only fit about three quarters of the ones that you made. You tuck the other ones into a plastic container and put them safely in the fridge to use on your next cake.

You are putting the finishing touches on the cake, its white base almost completely covered by the bright petals of roses, daisies, daffodils, and other flora, when you glance over at the time. You find that you are late for your smoke. You scramble to finish putting the leaves on the cake to hide the tool marks and open spots and then you hurry to grab your pipe and rush outside.

You have just settled into your chair when he is turning up your sidewalk.

"Hey old man, been busy today?"

You glance down at your hands when your eyes catch a bit of white on your uninjured hand and you suppose you didn't even have time to wash up before coming out here.

"Something like that," you acknowledge back at him while pulling out your matches to light the pipe.

"Here, let me help ya, old man." Dave plucks the book from your hand and expertly does the one handed lighting trick you had shown him. He holds it to the end of your pipe as you puff the flames to life. He repeats the trick for his own cigarette before leaning up against the porch post.

Even with the shades on his face you can tell he keeps taking glances at your hand. You notice he tracks over both of them. The icing would be pretty self explanatory if he is able to identify it, but you suppose the injury happened outside of his vision and you weren't given a chance to explain it before falling asleep last night.

"I've been working on dessert. I suppose I've made more of a mess than I usually do," you tell him, pointing out the icing.

"Yeah, you got flour all over you. Thought you got into a fight with the dough boy. Had to subdue his ass and wrestle him into the pan so that you could throw him into the oven and then eat his delicious flaky flesh after the timer goes off."

You glance down at the rest of your clothes and embarrassingly find that his metaphor, while slightly disturbing, is a plausible explanation for your current appearance.

"Ah well... I suppose I should get cleaned up before dinner."

"You could joi-" Dave cuts himself off with a couple coughs and you take the moment to turn away and try to hide the color in your face as you mentally finish the statement for him.

"I think just changing my outfit will be plenty."

"Right, right. Speaking on clothes... now that I got more than just the shirt on my back and actually I don't even have the one I started with, farewell my loyal friend, peace be with you in clothes heaven because you served me well. Do clothes get a heaven or is it just to the dumpster for them because I guess some of them are granted reincarnation as patches maybe, I don't know, what was I talking about?"

"Your new clothes."

"Ah yeah, so I got a stash now and I feel like it's kinda rude to leave them all piled up in the corner of the room because like you have a place for everything which is a little Stepford but at the same time it's kinda nice because all of your little hidey places make sense unlike Bro's 'cause he was always doing weird shit like cherry bombs in the ice machine or firecrackers in the sink and it was always a surprise when you open up the cabinets but I think that's just how his brain worked, ya know? But here I am in an actual logically organized place and I feel like I'm just throwing my shit everywhere and I know you are kinda cool with it but I was wondering if you had like a spare box that I could tuck everything in? Maybe bigger than a shoebox but smaller than a dresser and wow I'm getting picky about what box I want so just ignore me please."

You fidget with your pipe for a moment. "Actually I think I know of a solution. But please don't read into it anything more than it being a convenient solution but I do have a spare suitcase that would serve perfectly as your wardrobe's home if you chose to use it."

Dave contemplates your words. He's stoic but you think he's just working through the implications that you foresaw earlier as well, but after last night you think he understands that you wouldn't mean it that way. That same conclusion shows up on his face as a soft smile.

"That would be perfect old man. It's help contain my slovenly mess in a perfectly sized box and it's even meant to hold clothes. It's a two for one deal. Savings to the right and to the left. A real homemaker genius you are, old man."

You smile back at him and enjoy the rest of your pipe.

The two of you end up finishing around the same time. He ducks away upstairs for his daily ablutions while you first stop by the kitchen to cover the cake and to slip the chicken into the oven. The vegetable of the night will just be salad, one of the prepackaged ones that are just so handy that you don't know if you'll ever go back to adding all of the ingredients yourself unless it is for a large party.

After the timer is set, you head upstairs to the master bedroom to change clothes while Dave is taking his shower in the guest bath. You change out of your work clothes early and into something much more casual and comfortable, also taking the opportunity to wash your hands of icing and redress your burn. You leave the master bedroom feeling significantly less floury just as the guest bathroom door opens with a cloud of steam.

Once again, it seems Dave foregoes the use of a towel around his waist, keeping it over his shoulders. You pointedly keep your eyes up at the level of his face but still can't help but notice that his tail whips around to the front to cover the rest as soon as he notices you.

He blinks at you several times as you both are caught up in the awkward situation, but then you see him shift subtly, "If I knew you were going to take me up on it, I would have finished the invitation to the shower but it seems you have arrived past fashionably late, old man."

You know you are blushing from the way your ears are burning but you still can't help yourself. "Well, I might not have been fashionably late had the invitation been a bit more specific."

His ears twitch up in interest as his smile grows. You feel proud that you successfully bantered the barb but at the same time you are unsure of the position that you've talked yourself into.

You are saved by the screeching beep of the timer going off for the chicken. Dave nearly jumps at the sound, ears twitching backwards a moment before his head turns to look. You take the opportunity to excuse yourself and dash downstairs, hoping that your blush will settle soon.

You've put the chicken, salad, drinks, and plates on the dining table by the time Dave comes down. Both of you seem to silently agree not to bring up the incident of the upstairs hallway as you sit down to eat. Dave's silent prayer before the meal is longer than usual, but you don't comment about it. You're blush however isn't too far away as Dave starts up with his usual noises over the well cooked food.

Conversation ranges from small details of their day (still with no more information about what Dave does during the day) to older stories about your life and Dave's journey. His brother is mentioned more in stories now that that barrier has been broken down it seems. He stays away from the topic of whatever trauma happened and focuses only on the good happy parts. You assume that it's one style of coping and support it with stories of your own.

When the food is finished, Dave offers to do dishes again which provides you with the opportunity to prepare the cake. Dave glances over his shoulder from his position at the sink when you pull it out. He continues to stare in awe at it as you can't help yourself but show off by turning it so he can see all of the details. You reach for a knife to cut the cake but pause when you hear an upset noise coming from Dave.

"Is everything alright?"

"You can't cut it. It's too pretty."

You are a bit taken aback. "Too pretty?"

"Yeah." He turns off the water and grabs a dish towel to dry his hands so he can come over without dripping all over the kitchen. "The flowers. Wow. Like. Wow. Did you... Did you make this?"

"Of course."

"Wow."

"You've said that." You once again find your cheeks heating up under his praise.

"I know but it's worth saying. I mean this is like professional level. This is the shit that gets put onto wedding cakes and television shows. Those look like real flowers. I mean, my brain knows that they are just sugar and fluff but it just can't get over itself that it looks like I'm about to eat a bouquet given before a date like straight out of the vase the flowers were immediately put in to keep fresh. How are you even supposed to eat something so beautiful? It's like a sin to eat such artwork even. It's like eating the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel."

"Dave, I can always make another. It's just cake."

He frowns at you and you can't help but softly chuckle at his concern for one of your cakes. That just makes him pout even more.

"I promise I will make more."

"Fine," he says with resignation. "But it better be as delicious as it looks."

Moments later he is making positively pornographic noises over his slice of cake. He licks up every crumb and smear of icing off of the plate, uncaring that you are watching.

"You may have another slice if you wish," you offer and he's up out of his chair before you can finish. After years of your son fighting your cakes, it's very pleasant to see someone enjoy one so thoroughly.

Once he has had his fill (which is nearly all of the cake) and all of the dishes put away, the two of you end up on the couch. You sat down first and he curled up next to you, leaning into your side. You simply drape your arm around him and watch the news. He waits with you until after the weather before going upstairs. Like two nights ago the two of you pause in the hallway. You get the feeling Dave wants to ask you something. And tonight he does.

"Hey old man, I need some comfort tonight. Come sleep in the big bed." You suppose he's demanding, not asking, but it's a way of asking in his proud way.

"Alright, Dave." You follow him down the hall to the master bedroom, closing the door gently behind the two of you.


End file.
